ATF: Run
by chronicler-of-knuckles
Summary: Everyone runs. But do they always have to run?


TITLE: Run  
  
AUTHOR: The Chronicler  
  
RATING: PG   
  
WARNINGS: mention of slash relationship  
  
UNIVERSE: ATF  
  
SUMMARY: Everyone runs. But do they always have to run?  
  
NOTES: So.... I was feelin' bummed.   
  
ARCHIVE: Pretty please.  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.  
  
EMAIL:   
  
Run  
  
By The Chronicler  
  
He watched as the cars sped by, running as fast as they could to where ever it was they were going. Some were coming. Some were going. All were running.  
  
Sure, now and again there would be one chug-a-lugging along. A lone, yet satisfied, soul just moving along at a pleasant, no-hurry pace. Taking time to enjoy the view, smell the roses, kick a stone. Some one in no need to be anywhere. Why would he? He was happy everywhere.  
  
But that was one, lone car among hundreds, thousands even. The enigma, the illusion, the lie that it real was possible to be content.  
  
Truth was everyone ran. Whither to or from, everyone ran.  
  
So, why shouldn't he?  
  
It wasn't like he hadn't before. Things get too tough, too complicated, too close, or just too boring... off he'd go. Gas up the car, empty the accounts, pick out a new I.D., and away he goes.   
  
As easy as all-American apple pie.  
  
So, why the hell was sitting here, going no where? He could have been long gone hours ago, leaving behind all his troubles, all his heartache, all of Denver.  
  
Yet here he sat, no more than fifteen minutes away from the heart of the city... and the source of everything.  
  
Unfortunately, seated right beside what he wanted so much to run from, was the one and only thing he wanted to run to. His anchor, his rock, his protector, his reason for being, his love...  
  
So, his choices were:   
  
1) run, leave behind the job, the reputation, the constant worrying that came with friendship, the happily giving up what he wants just to please the one he loves... the fear of what will happen now that an innocent man laid dead from his bullet;   
  
or   
  
2) hold on for dear life, stand and face the music, trust that justice really is just, risk trust failing, risk life imprisonment, even worse, just for a few more minutes, a few more breaths, with the man he loved.  
  
"Damn it!" he cursed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. "What the hell is wrong with me?!" He reached for the ignition, but stopped.  
  
Running...  
  
Yes, he knew he'd run. He always knew that he would, one day, some day, run. Even when he was curled up in those strong, warm, protective arms, he knew he would run.  
  
The indecision laid in the where to... and what from...  
  
God, he didn't want to be here.  
  
Not in this car, in this cold, empty parking lot.  
  
Not in this damn city, nor this out-of-control state.  
  
Not in this far too unpredictable country....  
  
His eyes glanced up, searching out the new night's stars, just making themselves known in the shadows of dusk.  
  
Not even they seemed far enough away at that moment.  
  
"What a pathetic fool." he reprimanded himself with an angry shake of his head.  
  
Leaning his head back against the head rest, he closed his eyes.  
  
If only he had obeyed the rules.  
  
They were simple enough rules.   
  
Don't get attached.  
  
Don't get involved.  
  
Don't trust anyone but his own quick hands and sharp eyes.  
  
Don't ever fall in love.  
  
Don't ever, never, not once miss the mark.  
  
And he broke every last one.  
  
Angrily he slammed his head back against the head rest. "Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"  
  
He should of held his fire. He should of backed down. He should of let the damn phone ring and enjoyed his day off. He should of ran way back when he saw those fantastic, sharp blue eyes, felt those long, gentle, yet commanding fingers, the very first moment his heart had skipped.  
  
"Should'a, could'a, would'a..." He sighed. "But didn't."  
  
And there were reasons why he didn't.  
  
He hadn't held his fire because only he was in position to take the shot. He didn't let the phone ring because he liked being needed, being wanted. And he didn't run because it had been the first time he had felt that heart of his skip and, curse him all to hell, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than feel it skip again.  
  
Again he sighed, a long, tired sigh. He shook his head, reached for the ignition, and started the engine.  
  
Truth was there had never been any indecision, never a choice to be made.  
  
He watched as the cars sped by, cursing each and every single one of them for its incurable need to run. They didn't need to know where the hell they were going. Didn't need to know how the hell to get there. Or what the hell they'd do when they get there.  
  
All they cared about was that there was here.... and that must mean it was better. Better than a good job, the perfect home, loyal friends, a devoted lover...  
  
A devoted, adoring, passionate, obsessive, protective lover who would stomp any threat, any tease, anything' just for him...  
  
All he had to do was trust him. Just trust!  
  
He shook his head sadly. Trust seemed to be the only thing that ever failed between them. Funny thing was that is was trust seemed to be the only thing they had in common; trust and love. Both trusted and loved only one man enough to fall asleep in his arms.  
  
Then it happened.  
  
His sharp eyes narrowed, trying to pick out the details through the dark.  
  
It was a lone, little car chug-a-lugging along. Satisfied... or, at least, resolved with what he had to do.   
  
The little red convertible came to a slow, hesitant stop in front of him.  
  
He opened the door and climbed into the passenger's seat, closing the door behind him. Leaning his head back against the rest, he admitted "Thought you were gonna run."  
  
"Thought I was gonna run too." the driver admitted softly.  
  
"Good thing you didn't. They'd have sent the hounds after you in another hour or two."  
  
"Those hounds woulda been you boys?"  
  
His answer was a sigh.   
  
For a moment they sat in silence. Then the passenger asked "Do you want the good news or the bad first?"  
  
He shrugged. "Whatever comes.... I'll play the cards I'm dealt."  
  
"Bad news, then. I'm fuckin' well pissed off at you for takin' off like that." A pause. "But we'll talk 'bout that tonight, when I've got you all tucked away, jus' the two of us, safe 'n' sound 'n' home."   
  
He looked at him. "That's the bad news?"  
  
"You're bullet didn't do the killing."   
  
He froze in his seat, his breath catching, his knuckles turning white as his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "What...?" was his whispered gasp.  
  
"One of the FBI fools shot the same time. It was his bullet that did the killing. There was a hole in the shoulder of the hijacker's jacket. Your bullet was found in the wall behind them." He shook his head, smiling slightly. "What does J.D. call them? The FBI? Federal Bural of Idiocy?"  
  
"Don't call them that. He took the same shot I did." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Luck of the draw." The truth of that sent a wave through him that was almost too much. He dropped his chin to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. "Ah, Chris..." he whispered in a trembling voice.  
  
Chris Larabee reached over and set a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him across the seat.   
  
Ezra turned so he could lay his head against the man's chest. "I'm sorry." he whispered.  
  
Chris laid a gentle kiss on the top of his head. "Don't you ever, ever run away again."  
  
"Never again." he promised.  
  
After all, not everyone had to run.  
  
Run  
  
The End  
  



End file.
